


Ardently

by roundelet



Series: Ardently [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Alternate Universe - Regency, Chubby Stiles, Disabled Derek Hale, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Stiles, Weight Gain, a hint of hurt/comfort, but really mostly fluff, injuries, sassy manservant Isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundelet/pseuds/roundelet
Summary: Mr Stilinski contends with the loss of his family's funds, an unfortunate predilection for pastries, and an inconvenient attraction to this Season's most eligible bachelor.Lord Hale contends with a reluctant return to Society, hiding a war injury from meddling sisters, and the trials of courting a thoroughly oblivious young man.





	1. The Meeting

"I think I've turned into one of those hussy fortune hunters," Stiles complains to his manservant as he dresses him for the ball. He squints at himself in the mirror. "And I think you tied my waistcoat too tight. I can barely breathe."

"I tied it as loose as I could," Isaac says, reaching for Stiles's cuffs.

"Well it wasn't this tight when I wore it to the Yule Party."

Isaac coughs but it fails to cover up a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "None of your clothes were this tight in December."

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. "What are you implying, Isaac?"

"Nothing, sir."

Stiles gives his belly a poke under his waistcoat. He's had a little bit of a pooch there since his first year of University, but not enough that his trousers should be uncomfortably tight or that the buttons of his waistcoat should strain like they are.

"I'll send this suit to get taken out," Isaac offers. 

"Not in time for the ball," Stiles says. "Unless you are secretly a tailor in disguise."

Isaac quirks a brow. "You don't want to see me with a needle."

"No. I'm sure I don't." Stiles glances at his wardrobe. "What about the brown waistcoat? It's not as formal and I'll have to change my trousers, but--"

"Mary's still trying to get the cranberry stains out of that one," Isaac reminds him. "Remember you spilled the sauce all over it when you and the Sheriff ate with the McCalls last week?"

"Well, how long can it take to wash out a simple stain?"

"Actually, I think that was your second helping, if I remember correctly. Or was it your third?" Isaac muses as if he hadn't heard him. "Maybe that's why your waistcoat doesn't fit."

"I could fire you for impertinence, you know," Stiles mutters darkly.

"No, you couldn't," Isaac tells him. "The Sheriff pays my wages."

The Sheriff had saved Isaac from a bad home situation when he was a boy. Though he and Stiles had been of an age, and neither of Stiles's parents had any objections to Stiles socializing outside their class, he and Isaac had never been friends. Friendly, perhaps, at best. On rare occasion.

"Shall I tell Cook to start locking the cupboards at night?"

"What?" Stiles asks, as Isaac fastens his a cuff link.

"Or I could just send your entire wardrobe to the tailor's to be refitted."

Stiles eyes him warily. 

"No. Yes. I don't know." He throws up his hands. He hadn't thought anyone but Cook suspected his nighttime snacking. But he supposes the servants have little enough to entertain themselves with below stairs if not gossip. "I eat when I'm stressed. We all have our vices, all right? Don't think I don't know about you and your servant girls."

Isaac just raises an eyebrow at him. Before he says anything, though, there's a polite knock on the half-opened door. Stiles turns to see Parrish.

"You here to tell me Scott's arrived?" he asks.

"Yes, sir. I believe the McCall carriage just pulled up," he says. Stiles wonders if perhaps Parrish could teach Isaac some lessons in respect.

"I'm a slow learner," Isaac drawls, because apparently Stiles said that out loud. Isaac holds up Stiles's coat. "Want to see if this still fits you?"

"Of course it still fits," Stiles grumbles. He glances at Parrish in some embarrassment and tells him, "Go tell Scott I'll be down in a moment."

"Yes, sir," Parrish says.

Isaac helps Stiles into his coat. It's a bit snug over his shoulders, but it definitely still fits. As long as he doesn't try to button it, at least. But he'd planned on wearing it open, anyways. No matter what Isaac says about that not being the fashion this year.

His father is waiting for him downstairs in the foyer with Scott.

Scott grins at him, practically bouncing on his feet. "You ready to go?"

"Never been readier for anything in my life," Stiles says, and turns to his father. "You'll be all right by yourself tonight? You won't get in too much trouble while I'm out?"

His father all but rolls his eyes, but says, "You look good, son."

"I will take your lies in the spirit in which they are intended," Stiles tells him.

His father just shakes his head and squeezes his shoulder. "It'll be all right, you know. You don't need to find a match tonight. Or this Season. If there's no one who catches your eye, you know you can always return to finish University."

That is also a lie, but Stiles doesn't call him out on it. Not everyone can have fairy tale True Love like his parents had. His mother had thrown away status and prospects as the daughter of a Baron in order to marry a county sheriff. And now, with the loss of her dowry, which had been sunk into bad stocks by an incompetent, if not corrupt, accountant, Stiles knows they truly can't afford another year of University. Not on just a Sheriff's salary. And, unfortunately, his half of a degree in Western Mythology isn't sufficient to enter into a respectable profession.

But he knows how terrible his father already feels about not noticing sooner that his late wife's dowry was dwindling in poor investments, so Stiles just gives him a tight smile and says, "I know."

Finding a wife with a generous enough dowry, or a husband with an adequate inheritance, is obviously the best outcome for him. At least he doesn't have a preference in gender. He has that going for him, if little else.

Stiles and Scott are heading down the walk to where Scott's carriage is waiting, when Isaac's implications come back to Stiles. "Scott, tell me the truth, am I getting fat?"

"I wouldn't say fat," Scott hedges.

"Okay, what would you say, then?" Stiles asks.

"You've just put on a few since you returned from University," he says. His footman opens the door so they can climb into the carriage.

"Great." Stiles gives a deep sigh, which doesn't help his waistcoat situation any. God, he hopes he doesn't lose a button tonight, because that appears to be a real possibility here. It probably wouldn't hurt his prospects any, though, seeing as he doesn't exactly have any to begin with.

"So, Miss Allison Argent is supposed to be there tonight," Scott says, because he quite obviously cannot hold in this news any longer.

"Then you realize her father -- or, worse, her mother -- will be there, too, don't you?" Stiles points out, as the carriage starts down Stiles's less-than-respectable street.

"I know," Scott says, mood hardly dampened by this.

Stiles sighs. "You're still going to try to get your name on her dance card again, aren't you?"

"Maybe her mother won't cross it off this time," Scott says, with what appears to be genuine optimism.

 

 

 

"My dear brother," Laura says. "Promise me you'll ask one person to dance, all right?"

Derek sighs and says, "Fine." Because he knows his sister won't leave him alone until he agrees.

"Just put your name on one person's card," Laura tells him. "Anyone's. I don't care whose."

"I said fine."

"Yes, but you were lying," she says. "Look, one dance, and then we can leave. I won't force you to stay all night, no matter how much good some socializing would do you."

"One dance," he says.

"That's the spirit, dear brother." Laura gives him a sparkling grin and lets her husband lead her onto the dance floor.

There is no possibility that Derek can dance. But this is what Derek gets for not wanting to worry her about his recovery and pretending that, one month out of the Soldier's Hospital, that he's all but back to normal. Or that Dr Deaton would ever approve of him spending all evening without his cane.

For the last three years, Derek's survival has depended on him being aware of his surroundings. And so he's been aware of at three young women, one of them a debutante who looks too young to even be here, two young men and at least five mothers or grandmothers eyeing him from various locations around the ballroom.

Laura had told him he was likely to be the most eligible bachelor here as not only an Earl but a 'war hero'. She'd seemed to think that would be a selling point for his attendance, not yet another reason that Derek emphatically does not want to be here.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices one of the mothers who had been watching him start in his direction. He doesn't think she noticed that he saw her yet, so Derek can still escape without being the kind of impolite that will get him another lecture from his sister.

Derek glances around the room for somewhere to hide, and his eyes fall on a young man standing alone near a corner. He's alternating between wary glances at the dance floor and longing ones at the dessert table. Given the direction his interests appear to lie, perhaps Derek can approach him without being expected to ask for his dance card. 

And so he finds himself piling a chocolate brioche and a few tartlets onto a plate and heading the man's direction.

As Derek gets closer, he gets a better look at the man. He's young, but not so young that this would be his first season. The fall of brown hair over his forehead looks almost accidentally fashionable. He has moles across his face, a pretty upturned nose, and an ill-fitting suit that even Derek can tell is out of fashion. He wonders if he borrowed it or if it's simply old, because it was clearly cut for a more slender man. Not that he is fat by any means, though. Derek probably wouldn't have even noticed that he was carrying extra weight but for the way his waistcoat buttons are straining over his midsection.

Derek hasn't been attracted to anyone in a long time. But there's something about this man, so awkwardly beautiful, he wonders if he'll be forced to make an exception.

The man doesn't seem to have noticed him with his attention back on the dance floor, so Derek holds the dessert plate in front of himself and says, "Hello."

The man turns to him with a startle. "Um. Hello? Hi?"

"I'm Derek Hale," Derek says. It's unusual but not improper to approach a member of the same sex without formal introductions. He shifts the plate to his left hand and reaches out to shake the man's hand. The other man's fingers are long and his grip strong even though he seems hesitant.

"Stilinski," Stiles says. "You don't want to know my first name, trust me. It's a mess I can't even pronounce."

"Stilinski?" Derek repeats, and hopes he's not being too rude when he says, "I'm afraid I don't know the Stilinskis."

"Oh. We're just, uh. No one. My father's the Sheriff out in Beacon County. My mother was a lady, baron's daughter, or I obviously wouldn't be here at all." Stiles gestures widely at the ballroom. "Not that I get invited to that many. I was surprised to get the invitation to this one, actually. But I figure it must be because I'm friends with Scott McCall."

Derek hesitates in the face of his frankness, but says, "Mr Stilinski, I--"

"Please just call me Stiles," the man waves dismissively.

It's an odd informality for having just met. Even if he hadn't admitted it, it was obvious man wasn't brought up in High Society. Derek decides he likes him the more for it. 

He finds himself saying, lips curving up without his permission, "Then call me Derek."

"Well, Derek," Stiles says, seeming to relax as he gives Derek a cheeky grin. "What brings you over to my corner of the ballroom?"

Derek opens his mouth, but then feels a heavy clap on his shoulder.

"Why, Lord Hale," Deucalion is giving him a smirk. "What a pleasant surprise to find you here tonight."

"Nice to see you as well," Derek says automatically. He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye. Stiles is beginning to back away, and Derek hasn't even given him the desserts yet. So he hastily introduces them, "Lord Deucalion, this is Mr Stilinski."

"An honor," Deucalion says as he gives him a dismissive once-over then turns back to Derek. "I had hoped to speak with you about the goods and sales bill up for vote, but I hate to ruin such a delightful evening with politics. Perhaps we could meet later this week?"

"That will do," Derek says. He can think of a dozen things he'd rather do with his time. But, even though he wouldn't have chosen the lordship for himself, he remains stuck with the title now, and the responsibilities that go along with it.

"Well, I will take your leave, then, Hale," Deucalion says. He gives Stiles a nod. "Mr Stilinski."

Derek turns back to Stiles, ready to offer him the desserts, when Stiles hisses, "Shit, you're a *lord*? What kind of lord are you?"

"The Earl of Lycanshire," Derek says, not sure what to make of Stiles's vulgarity or his obvious surprise. 

Stiles's eyes are still wide. "What the hell are you doing talking to me?"

Derek ungracefully shoves the dessert plate towards him. "Here. Take it."

"Uh. What?" Stiles says, staring down incredulously at the pastries.

"I saw you looking at them. You seemed hungry. I thought I might take the liberty of--"

"I'm not hungry," Stiles says quickly, but doesn't take his eyes off the pastries.

"You look hungry," Derek says.

"I--" Stiles starts to say something, but hesitates this time.

"You don't have to take it," Derek tells him, feeling awkward for having pushed too hard.

But then Stiles grumbles something -- Derek only catches the word 'Isaac' -- and he snatches the plate out of his hand.

Derek attempts to suppress a smile.

"Thank you," Stiles tells him around a mouthful of tartlet.

"I'm glad you--" Derek cuts off when he hears a familiar raised voice from not too far away. He looks sharply over at Cora, who is telling off what appears to be an overeager suitor. Derek sighs. He has no doubt that Cora can handle herself as far as the suitor goes. But he doesn't share the same faith in her preserving her reputation in the process.

He turns to Stiles with regret, "Sorry, I have to go take care of this. I'll be right back."

Stiles nods, mouth still full, and gestures him away.

 

 

Once Laura arrives -- who is far more capable than he of handling his younger sister -- Derek is finally able to head back over to rejoin Stiles in the corner of the room. Stiles gives him a nod and a grin as he picks up--is that the third pastry already? He clearly was hungry, despite his protests.

Derek's leg is aching from the hours spent standing and he's afraid his muscles will seize up and cause him to fall with one wrong step, so he walks back over to Stiles's corner slowly.

As he does, he finds himself actually wishing that he could ask Stiles to dance.

He doesn't recall seeing any waltzes on the programme. So it's not as if they would have much contact besides an occasional brush of gloved hands during a reel. But a dance would be an excuse to spend more time with -- and in some small way to lay a claim to -- this beautiful young man. 

Instead, all he can do is bring him desserts. At least Stiles doesn't unappreciative of that. Derek is debating if he should stop at the dessert table and bring him more -- there are a couple types of pastry that he doesn't think Stiles has tried yet -- when he sees another young man grab Stiles's arm, looking frantic.

Derek finds himself staring after them as the two young men hurry out of the ballroom.

 

 

Stiles wakes up the next morning thinking about Derek. It's a shame he was an Earl and was probably only spending time talking to Stiles out of sheer boredom. Because he was funny and gorgeous and sweet, in a kind of awkward way. Even if Stiles can't help but question why Derek had thought bringing desserts to someone who could barely fit into his suit was a good idea. But it wasn't as if Stiles hadn't appreciated the sentiment. The tartlets had been delicious. He'd thought about going back for more. But then Scott had suddenly appeared and grabbed him by the arm, saying, "We have to go. Now."

He'd followed Scott's scared glance across the ballroom to see Lady Argent making her way regally, but scarily purposefully, towards them.

"What did you do?" Stiles demanded, as they hurried out of there, walking as fast as they could without drawing too much attention.

"She found out I danced with Miss Allison," Scott huffed, his asthma clearly acting up between the dance and their flee into the chilly night air.

"Did you actually think she wouldn't?" Stiles stopped and stared at him.

"Come on, Stiles," Scott whined, tugging Stiles after him towards the drive where the carriages waited.

"Seriously, Scott, you were dancing in the center of a ballroom, not some dark corner of the gardens -- which I'm sure Lady Argent wouldn't have been any more happy about, so don't get any ideas. How the hell did you expect her not to notice?"

"I thought it was worth the chance?"

"And was it?" Stiles asked as they scrambled into the carriage.

"Oh, yeah," Scott grinned wide at him. "Miss Allison's so beautiful, Stiles. And smart. You know she speaks Latin and Greek and French?"

"You mean like all other well-bred females?"

"Did you know she does archery?" Scott continued. "Isn't that amazing?"

"Yes, amazing," Stiles repeated. "What about her father? Isn't it said that he knows his way around a pistol?"

"I don't know," Scott had said thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"

 

 

When Stiles comes down the stairs, he smoothly grabs the glazed bun from his father's plate as he sits down at the table.

His father narrows his eyes at him. "I was about to eat that, you know."

"You have your heart to worry about," Stiles tells him as he smothers it in clotted cream.

"And you don't?" His father raises his eyebrows.

"I'm young and hardy," Stiles says. "You're--"

"Old and decrepit, I know," he says, but doesn't sound offended. Probably because he smugly adds, "I heard you were trying to cut back on your diet, though. Something about having to re-tailor your suits?"

"Seriously?" Stiles turns to Isaac, who's standing at lazy attention at the parlor door. "Isn't there supposed to be master-manservant confidentiality? And don't you two have anything better to do than gossip about me, anyways?"

Isaac snickers.

Stiles shoots him a glare and announces, "When I get married, I'm not taking you with me."

Isaac wipes away a fake tear and says, "And my whole ambition in life was to serve you until the end, Master Stilinski."

"Shut up," Stiles says.

"Stiles," his father says, reprimandingly.

"Fine," Stiles says. "Look, 'cutting back' lasted about an hour and a half. I'm going for a different tact. I'm going on a constitutional this morning."

His father raises an eyebrow.

"I'll get some exercise and trim down in no time," Stiles proclaims as he takes a big bite of the bun.

"Where are you headed?" his father asks.

"I don't know. Scott said he'd join me, so I'm walking over there first. If you figure in that I'll have to walk back here afterwards, that's probably almost a sufficient constitutional right there."

"McCall lives on Park Lane. It's only five blocks from here," his father says. He tries to sneak another pastry from the serving plate but Stiles slaps his hand away and takes it for himself instead.

"Yes, so?"

His father just shakes his head.

 

 

"I'm meeting Lord McCall for a constitutional," Stiles proclaims at butler when he opens the door to Scott's fashionable townhouse.

The butler gives him a thoroughly disinterested look and says, "I'm afraid Lord McCall is unavailable. He was out late last night."

"What? But we left the ball early," Stiles says.

And then he realizes that Scott must have gone out to one of his clubs after he'd dropped Stiles off. Stiles knows he doesn't fit in with his higher class of friends, but it would be nice to be included once in a while. He glares up the stairs behind the butler.

 

 

Derek's making his way down a dirt trail of western Hyde Park. It's forested and about as close to nature as he can get in the City. And, more importantly, he's unlikely to run into anyone from Society on this end of the park. This is a necessity if he doesn't want the entire Ton to witness him limping with his cane.

Or worse, his sisters.

He's leaning heavily on his cane this morning with his leg still aching from the ball. Dr Deaton probably would have wanted him to take a day's rest. He can all but hear the lecture in his head. But Derek is unwilling to get a day behind in his rehabilitation. His progress is already far slower than he would like.

He's turning around a corner when he all but runs into a young man.

"Shit, sorry, I wasn't looking where I--Derek?"

Derek stares at him. He'd spent the better part of his walk trying to think up schemes to find Stiles again. And settled, unfortunately, on having to attend more balls and hope that he would be there.

Of course, it would happen instead when Derek is panting and leaning on his cane with nothing to conceal the pathetic cripple he is.

"Are you all right?" Stiles asks, concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," Derek says sharply.

"Really? Because you're all pale and sweaty and you don't look like you're using that cane because you like to accessorize." Stiles folds his arms across his chest. "You know, I thought you were limping a little last night but you looked a lot better then than you do now."

"I'm fine," Derek repeats, angry with himself that he'd let it show without even noticing. As long as his sisters hadn't noticed -- and he certainly would have already heard about it if they had -- it would be all right, though.

Stiles's countenance only hardens at his reply and Derek sighs. 

"It's just a war injury," he says.

"Just? And you were in the war?" Stiles asks, staring wide-eyed at his leg. It makes Derek look down, too, but nothing of his scarred and atrophied thigh is visible through his trouser leg.

"You really aren't in the gossip loop of Society, are you?" Derek asks, amused despite himself. But he sees Stiles's cheeks flush as he looks down at the ground.

"I suppose it was pretty obvious I didn't belong last night."

"That's not what I meant," Derek says.

Stiles glances back up at him. "So what brings you here?"

"Rehabilitation," Derek says simply, and hopes that will be the end of the subject. "And you?"

"Trying to get my suits to fit again," Stiles tells him.

Derek gives him a confused look and Stiles's hand goes self-consciously to his midsection. Now that Derek's paying attention, today's outfit isn't any better fitting than the one from last night.

"Apparently I've put on a few, lately."

Derek isn't entirely sure what he's supposed to say to that. He tries not to stare at the way the fabric wrinkles next to the straining buttons of his waistcoat.

But Stiles keeps rambling, "I had to take my suits out once already, my first year of university. And now that I have to do it again, Isaac, my manservant -- even if he doesn't really act like one half the time -- said he'll have the tailor do the most he can, but apparently there isn't much spare room. Also I guess I'm 'Out' for the Season, and I haven't heard that rotundity is back in fashion, so I should probably try to lose a bit of this, anyways."

Derek still doesn't know what to say. He wonders if Stiles realizes he's just admitted to not controlling his servants, to how old his suits are, and that he obviously can't afford new ones. Most people Derek has met would be far more embarrassed about that than putting on an extra stone or so. But he's hardly going to say that.

Or the second thing that comes to mind, which is that Stiles looks good with soft cheeks and a little bit of chub at his waistline.

So, instead, he latches onto the one thing Stiles mentioned that doesn't seem impolite to discuss. "You're a student?"

"Uh. Was. Was a student," Stiles says. He scratches the back of his neck. "Did two years of Western Mythology."

"Did you not like it?" Derek asks.

"Something like that," Stiles says. He doesn't elaborate further. So obviously the topic of university isn't a good one, either.

So Derek says the only neutral thing he can think of that's left: "It's a nice day out."

Derek follows Stiles's eyes up to the sky. The sky which is, in actuality, rather gloomy.

He tries to cover up and finds himself blurting out, "Would you like to go for ices?"

Stiles stares at him. Right. That was a stupid thing to ask, when he'd just said that he was trying to lose his extra weight. Even if it hadn't stopped him from finishing the plate of desserts Derek had given him last night.

However, instead of objecting on those grounds, Stiles just gives him a small smile and says, "It's barely April. I don't think they sell ices until the summer."

Right. Of course. Derek is an idiot at this. He tries to think of what a man less awkward than him would suggest. The opera? People go to the opera. Derek's never liked it, but maybe Stiles would. He's obviously smart and he's been to university. So perhaps he would understand the language. Or the theatre? That seems like it would be more fun. But the only one Derek knows of is not in the best of neighborhoods. Would Stiles think him a ruffian if he suggested it?

Maybe Derek should just give this up. Clearly he is incapable of even the most basic of courtship rituals. For god's sake, he couldn't even ask him to dance. What does he even have to offer him?

But then he realizes Stiles is talking.

"What was that?" Derek interrupts.

Stiles gives him an odd look and then says, "I was just suggesting a coffeehouse instead."

Of course. Derek shakes his head at himself. He should have thought of that from the beginning.

"We don't have to," Stiles backtracks quickly, obviously mistaking his reaction. "I just thought, you mentioned ices, so coffee might be more seasonally appropriate?"

"No, I'd like that," Derek says. "Where do you live?"

"Why?" Stiles asks, suddenly sounding suspicious.

"Because I'll come to collect you in my coach," Derek says. But Stiles still seems reluctant or confused or both. Derek doesn't think this was a strange thing to offer. But maybe he has forgotten yet another rule of Society and--

"Fine," Stiles says. And then gives Derek an address on a rather less than fashionable street.

So that's why he was reluctant to say. At least this means that perhaps he won't object to an outing to the theatre, after all. Assuming that he still wants to spend time with Derek after the coffeehouse today, that is.


	2. The Courtship

"So, we're going to the theatre tonight?" Stiles asks. They're walking through the park two weeks later, like they've been doing almost every morning since that first.

Derek is finally building some endurance in his battered leg and Stiles's suits are fitting him better. Though, on that end, Derek suspects the better fit is in greater part due to having the seams let out. After witnessing the amount Stiles managed to eat on their trip to Pleasure Gardens the other day -- and how much joy he seemed to take out of the treats -- there is little likelihood that their morning constitutionals could make up for that. 

Especially since Derek knows he's slowing Stiles down and preventing him from getting any true workout. He does his best not to lag too pathetically and to avoid leaning too heavily on his cane, but Stiles seems to have an extra sense solely dedicated to knowing when Derek's leg is starting to ache. And, inevitably, he insists on slowing down, or taking breaks on the park benches, or turning back sooner than they had planned.

Even as Derek's somewhat taken aback by the younger man's careful attention to him, he wishes Stiles had no need to take such care of him.

"If you still wish to," Derek says in response to his question.

"Of course I wish to!" Stiles exclaims. "What are we going to see? Is London Parker in it?"

 

 

London Parker, who Scott had raved about, was in the play, after all. And, as they exit the theatre, Stiles can't help but think that it was the best play he'd seen since the sketch shows at the University.

He'd suspected Derek hadn't appreciated the humor quite as much as he had. But every time Stiles had glanced at him, knowing there was a big grin on his face, Derek had graced him with a soft smile in return. 

"Would you like to join me for supper?" Derek asks as they stand in line for his footman to bring the carriage around.

"Tonight?" Stiles asks in surprise. He knows some of the upper echelons of society dine late, but it is likely after midnight now. "Are your servants even still awake?"

"Likely so. But I didn't mean tonight." Derek gives Stiles a concerned frown. "Are you hungry now, though? I didn't think--I should have taken you out to supper beforehand."

"No, no. I'm fine." Stiles laughs, putting a hand on Derek's forearm to reassure him. Then quickly removes it upon seeing Derek glance down at where he's touching him. He's thankful for the darkness that hides the blush he feels heating his cheeks.

The more time they spend together, the more often he forgets that he is no more than an unlikely friend to Derek. A novelty, perhaps, for how different he is from Derek's peers. The thought that Earl Hale might be courting him is ludicrous and it's becoming embarrassing how often he's been having to remind himself of that lately.

"Are you certain?" Derek asks.

"Yes," Stiles says. Though now that the subject of supper has been brought up, he is already planning how to sneak down to the kitchen once he gets home for a bit of a snack without Isaac noticing.

Stiles knows that Isaac's right in trying to get him to watch his appetite, but doesn't see the harm in indulging once in a while. Especially since that his suits are practically loose on him now that they've been taken out. Admittedly, not as loose as they had been when they were first re-tailored, but he still has room for an occasional indulgence.

He notices Derek staring at him in consternation. It's odd how unsure the man seems sometimes, as if he doesn't realize that everything an Earl says and does is automatically correct, and that it's others who should fall into line.

"When do you want to have supper, then?" he asks.

"It will have to be the night after tomorrow," Derek says, scratching at his neatly trimmed beard. "My sisters are insisting that I come with them to the Hamptons' ball tomorrow, especially since I missed the one last weekend."

"Works for me," Stiles says easily. Then he spots the carriage with the conspicuous 'H' on the side pulling up.

Derek holds the door open for him, and supports Stiles's elbow as he steps up. He doesn't appear to notice the look of mild amusement his footman is giving him at the Earl performing his job. Stiles figures this is another proof of Derek still not being habituated to being back in Society, or Derek remembering too well the time Stiles stumbled and almost cracked his head on the cobblestone.

More likely the latter.

Once they're situated in the coach, Derek asks, "You are coming to the Hamptons' tomorrow, aren't you?"

Stiles snorts a laugh. "Not unless they take well to uninvited guests invading their ballrooms."

"You weren't invited?" Derek asks.

"Of course not." Stiles shrugs. "I'm fairly sure Scott's been blacklisted this Season after his stunt with Lady Allison. And you know that he was the only reason I would be invited in the first place."

There's silence as the carriage rumbles over the pothole-ridden streets of the theatre district. Stiles turns and sees Derek frowning at him in the gaslight.

He opens his mouth to ask what the matter is when Derek says, "You'll come as my guest, then."

"What?"

"Unless you don't want to," Derek amends.

Stiles doesn't, in fact, want to. Spending an evening being shunned by Society isn't precisely his idea of a fun evening. But he's well aware the whole purpose to his being in London for the Season is to make a match. And he won't do that if he spends all his time at home or alone with Derek.

"Are you allowed to do that? Bring an uninvited guest?" Stiles asks, instead of voicing his actual thoughts.

"Stiles, I'm a wealthy unmarried Earl and one of the most eligible bachelors this year," Derek says with a sigh. "They will be happy just to have me there."

Stiles laughs. "Only you can say that and manage to sound so put-upon, you know."

 

 

"I know your secret scheme now, Lord Hale," Stiles says, grinning between spoonfuls of the trifle Derek had brought him.

"And that is?" Derek asks. He tries not to stare at the tip of Stiles's pink tongue as he licks a bit of custard from his lips.

"You just brought me along to keep the fortune hunters away," he declares, pointing his spoon at him. "I am nothing to you but a human shield."

"Is that right?"

"Yes," Stiles declares, and takes another bite.

"You are wrong, then," Derek says, feeling his lips threaten to twitch into a smile as he teases him. "You are also here to prevent my sisters from making me dance."

"You can't dance with your leg like this," Stiles says, looking aghast as he gestures toward the dance floor where the young couples are dancing a lively reel.

"My sisters don't know that."

"God, Derek, you are hopeless." As one of the livery-clad servants pass by, he hands them his empty glass bowl. "But I'm not letting you set yourself back weeks of rehabilitation because of your stupid pride."

"Hmm," Derek muses. "Seems you are playing perfectly into my scheme, then, aren't you?"

"You are a boor," Stiles declares and swats him on the shoulder. Derek can't help but laugh.

But then Derek hears a voice demand from behind him: "Who are you?"

Derek reluctantly turns to face his sister. "Laura--"

"Did you just make my brother laugh?" she interrupts.

"What?" Stiles looks stricken. "I didn't--what? I didn't mean to."

"Laura," Derek says more forcefully. He gestures at Stiles. "This is Mr Stilinski. Stiles, meet my dearly beloved sister."

"Lady Forster," Laura says. 

"Please to meet you?" For a moment, Stiles looks like he barely knows what to do with the gloved hand Laura offers him, but then finally presses a kiss to her knuckles.

Laura turns back to Derek. "Is this the gentleman who's been occupying so much of your time? I don't know why you haven't introduced us until now."

Derek glances at Stiles, who's still looking a little scared. He doesn't blame him.

"He's adorable, Der." Laura grins at him as if she knows just how much she's embarrassing him. "I approve."

 

 

 

"Did you have a good time?" 

Stiles steps into the salon, where the fire is still going. He's returned from yet another ball, this one at some Duke-or-another's mansion. His father is seated on the couch, a finger of whiskey left in the glass he's about to bring to his mouth. Stiles smoothly swoops in and takes it from him before he can have another drink.

"You know you'll never find a match in London with manners like those," his father grouses as Stiles downs the drink himself.

Stiles just shrugs, dropping down to sit on the couch next to his father. "Hasn't hurt me so far."

"Has it not?" his father says, raising an eyebrow as he reaches for the whiskey bottle. Stiles takes that out of his hand, too, and his father sighs. "How was the ball, then? Dance with many debutantes?"

Stiles grins. "More than you will believe."

"None, then?"

He shrugs as he stands up to put the whiskey bottle away. He locks the cupboard and pockets the key. "I wasn't lonely," he says.

"You spent the whole evening with the Hale boy, didn't you?"

"Hale boy?" Stiles repeats. "Now who has no manners?"

"Ah, sorry. You spent the whole evening with Lord Hale, Earl of Lycanshire, then, didn't you?"

"No?" Stiles tries. He grabs a candle and kneels to light it from the fire. He tries to ignore the way his trousers pinch painfully at his waist. When he stands up again, he shuts the flue.

His father sighs heavily. "You know I meant it when I said that you don't have to find a match this Season."

"I know," Stiles says. Though he can't help but feel guilty that finding a match is indeed becoming less and less likely as the Season progresses.

"I just don't want you getting up false hope with Hale. You know that even if he wanted to, he couldn't court someone so far below him as we are."

"I know." Stiles reminds himself of that daily. "It's not like that."

"Son--"

"Here." Stiles places the candle down on the end table next to his father. "You know we can't afford to burn wood for a fire all night."

His father gives him a knowing look. Stiles sighs.

"Look, it will be fine. I promise," he says. "I'm well aware of what I am to Derek. I'm hardly going to get my heart broken."

"If you say so, son."

 

 

Stiles makes it up the stairs to his room. He immediately sheds his jacket and unbuttons his waistcoat. But it's only once he unfastens his trousers that he can finally take a real breath.

Once again, he's eaten too much at the ball tonight. He'd like to blame Derek for the way he continues to refill his plates. But he knows that he only does it in response to the hungry looks he knows he keeps giving the food tables. 

He lays a hand on his rounded middle. He doesn't think the indulgence has had an effect on his figure, except when he's swollen with food like he is now. But, with the way the balls have been scheduled with greater frequency -- three, sometimes four, times a week now that it's the height of the Season -- and that Derek insists on taking him along to each one as a shield from the mothers scheming to marry off their sons and daughters, he knows he needs to keep a watch on it. Especially as Isaac has taken to reminding him more often now that there is little room to take his suits out again.

 

 

So, two nights later, at the Altmans' ball, when Derek offers Stiles a plate of assorted tartlets and cheesecakes, Stiles holds his hand up.

"I'm not hungry," Stiles lies.

"I can practically hear your stomach growl, Stiles," Derek says. Which is probably true.

"Yes, well, my stomach is scheming to make me fat," Stiles grouses.

Derek looks him up and down, and then meets his eyes again with an expression that makes Stiles's cheeks flush.

"You look fine to me," he says, almost too quietly for Stiles to hear over the orchestra.

"Ugh. All right. I'll try one or two," Stiles says, and snatches the plate. If he didn't know better, he'd think Derek looked like he wanted him, like he was interested in him, attracted to him. But, no, he's not going to think that. It's too ridiculous.

And, like his father said, even if it was true, Derek couldn't do anything about it.

So one or two desserts ends up being three or four. And then he needs to taste his favorite lemon cream cakes because their Cook can't afford to buy the lemons and he doesn't know when he'll get another chance.

 

 

Derek is pleased that Stiles has showed no hint of stopping joining Derek on his constitutionals. This means that they've been seeing each other each morning, and then two or three times a week either on a daytime outing, on the days Derek doesn't have to attend Parliament, or for dinner at Derek's house. This is in addition to the balls Derek's sisters drag him along to, and which Derek, in turn, drags Stiles along to.

They're taking one of these constitutionals one morning, walking under trees which have just begun to blossom with late spring flowers. 

"Did you have a good breakfast, this morning?" Derek asks.

"No." Stiles gives him a confused look. "I don't usually breakfast before I meet you here. Why?"

"No reason," Derek says. He doesn't know what caused him to blurt out the question. But he also doesn't know why Stiles is lying to him. His waistcoat is stretched out in the way that it only is after Derek's watched him eat more than his fill.

He sneaks another peek at Stiles's middle as they continue walking. But what if he is telling the truth? Stiles's cheeks do look softer, now that he's paying attention. Has he put on a few more pounds?

Derek finds himself having the urge to slide his hand up under his waistcoat and feel Stiles's belly. Feel if it's softened with the accumulation of all his indulgences or just swollen from overconsumption this morning.

He feels Stiles's eyes on him and Derek clears his throat, trying to will away this strange urge. He doesn't know why it even occupies his thoughts. If Stiles ever does accept his courtship, Derek wouldn't care if he puts on another stone or two by their wedding day.

Desperate to change the topic, Derek turns to complaining about his estate's investments, and all the time it takes to oversee them. 

Of course, this makes him feel even more ashamed when Stiles responds defiantly, finally disclosing to him the financial situation that he's only hinted at before. Of how he lost his mother's dowry and had to leave University against his own desires.

"That's why you're here for the Season," Derek says in realization.

"Yes," Stiles says. He scratches the back of his neck. "I feel like some sort of fortune hunting hussy, just hoping someone will take pity on my situation."

He must realize at some point that Derek has stopped walking alongside him, because he turns hurriedly back to him.

"I'm sorry. Is it your leg? I hadn't even noticed we'd walked so far. You need a rest. I think there was a bench back there--" He grabs Derek's arm, the one not holding the cane, and tries to tug him back.

"I'm fine," Derek says, just staring at him.

"Are you sure about that?" Stiles still looks concerned.

"Is that really what you want? Someone who will pity you?"

Stiles looks taken aback for a moment by the change back to the earlier topic. But then he huffs out a bitter laugh. "That is the best I can hope for, isn't it?"

Derek opens his mouth to assure him that he doesn't pity him. That that is the very last thing he feels for him.

But a thought stops him. Is this why Stiles allows Derek so much of his time? Does he just consider being courted by a boorish, crippled veteran to at least be better than the poorhouse?

"The market for jobs isn't the best," Stiles is saying, playing with the rim of the hat in his hands. "But I have applied for a couple positions."

"For jobs?" Derek frowns at him.

"Yes, Derek," Stiles says with exaggerated patience. "Like the majority of the country who are not born to vast wealth happen to do."

"I didn't mean--"

"I know," Stiles says. And then shrugs and starts to tell him about how he knows he's hardly going to get a position at the Museum, which is the sort of job he would prefer, with only a half-finished degree. And then about the jobs he might actually be qualified for.

Derek thinks on that as they walk. He has difficulty picturing Stiles in an accountant's office or merchant's shop. But he can see Stiles in the leather chair in the Master's study of his country estate. He would leaf through the books and call Derek an idiot for all his bookkeeping errors. Derek can see him reaching for a pen to correct Derek's work. Can see him wetting the tip with his tongue before dipping it into the inkpot.

Derek has to stop his thoughts from straying too far in that direction. But he can't help but wonder if, in truth, it would be so terrible if Stiles only chose him for his wealth. Whatever his motivations, he at least seems not to completely dislike Derek's company. And it's not like Derek doesn't want to provide Stiles everything he could ever need.

And maybe Derek could even care for him well enough that Stiles might come to love him back, someday.

"My father wouldn't be happy if he knew. So you can't tell him, all right?"

"Tell him what?" Derek asks, having missed the segue.

Stiles sighs. "Tell him I've applied for work."

"All right," Derek agrees. Though he's hoping it's a topic that will never need to be broached.


	3. The Engagement

"You know what I've heard is coming into fashion?" Isaac says casually as he fastens Stiles's cravat.

"What?" Stiles asks warily.

"Corsets."

"Corsets."

"Indeed." Isaac smirks. "Rumor is the Prince got himself one. They'll be all the rage soon."

"Since when are you all up on fashion?" Stiles demands.

"Since it would make my job easier if you got yourself one." Isaac gives Stiles's belly a pat through his buttondown shirt.

"Hey!" Stiles protests and sucks in self-consciously.

"You know, we had to re-fit this suit again," Isaac says, as he wraps the waist coat around Stiles's midsection. "I don't know how Mrs Dawes did it. The tailor said there wasn't any room."

Stiles didn't realize they'd done that. Or that they had needed to. But it's a lucky thing that his servants had been proactive or he wouldn't have had anything to wear to the opera tonight.

But, instead, he tells Isaac, "You're just jealous I get to go to fancy balls and eat desserts you can only dream about."

Isaac quirks an eyebrow at him. "Am I?"

Stiles sighs.

It isn't as if he doesn't know the rich foods are having an effect. He's aware that his little pooch from university is starting to look more like a little belly. And he can see how the worn fabric of his trousers has to stretch over his thighs.

Also Isaac isn't the only one who's noticed. His father had questioned just the other day the efficacy of his daily constitutionals.

And Scott had recently assured him, out of the blue, that when he got out of London and moved back to the countryside with his father, Stiles might slim back down a bit. Stiles should have be offended at the implication that he would not find a partner this season, but even he knows that his time is running out and his prospects are as bleak as they ever were.

 

 

Derek offers Stiles his arm as he steps down from the coach and Stiles allows Derek to lead him in.

They make their way through the crowd of well-dressed Society mingling around the entrance to the Opera House and up the stairs to the box Derek knows that his sister rented for the night. They're the first ones there. He watches Stiles's eyes widen as he takes in the lavish auditorium.

"View good enough for you?" Derek asks.

"It'll do," Stiles says with a shrug. It's then that Derek realizes he's still holding onto Stiles's arm. When he reluctantly lets it go, he immediately misses the warmth of their proximity.

"I hope you know Italian," Derek says as they settle into chairs next to each other.

"Is that a requirement?" Stiles frowns.

Derek shrugs. "If you don't want Cora mistranslating for you."

"I know Ancient Greek. And I'm not bad at Latin," Stiles offers. "Perhaps that will be close enough?"

"Better than me," Derek says. "As far as foreign language goes, I remember nothing from public school. All I know are French epithets and the descriptive threats of tortures."

Derek hadn't even realized what he was saying until it was out and now Stiles is staring at him with horrified eyes. He suddenly feels Stiles's hand on his arm and Derek recoils, almost jumping out of his seat before he forces himself to remain in place.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, unable to look at him. "I didn't mean to--I don't know why I said that."

He's been so careful not to reveal the truth of his time in the war to anyone. He can't stomach the thought of his sisters' pity or the disgust that he knows must be showing now on Stiles's face.

"I'm sorry," Derek says again, after there's a long silence. The seats of the main audience below them are starting to fill up with fashionable dresses and men dressed in top hats, carrying canes that are only decoration. If there is any location where his experiences in the war are appropriate conversation -- and there isn't -- this is certainly not it.

"Jesus, Derek, stop saying 'sorry'," Stiles exclaims. It startles Derek into looking back at him. His eyes are still wide in horror, but he can see the connections he's making behind them. 

"Stiles," he starts.

But Stiles is still talking. "That's why you were so thin and ill-appearing when I first saw you, isn't it? You'd been imprisoned, hadn't you?"

Derek opens his mouth but Stiles is still talking.

"And your injury. That's not from battle, is it?" he demands.

Everything is ruined now, anyways, so there's nothing left for Derek to lose when he asks, "Which injury?"

"Which injury? Which injury of how many? Jesus Christ. *Derek*." Stiles slumps back in his chair as if the fight has gone out of him at that prospect.

"This doesn't have to change anything between us," Derek says, even as he hates the pleading tone in his voice.

Stiles looks back up at him. "To change what?"

"How you think of me," he says.

"What? Why would it--wait, Derek, you think I'd actually think less of you for being *tortured*?" Stiles demands. "Seriously, you're the biggest idiot I know. If you had any idea how much I care for you--"

Derek can't do anything but stare.

"Little brother!" A voice exclaims from behind them and Stiles visibly startles backward into his seat.

"Laura." Derek reluctantly breaks eye contact with Stiles and stands to kiss her hand. Then turns to her husband. "Greetings, Forster."

Her husband shakes his hand with a sympathetic smile.

"My Lady," Stiles says to Laura, looking like he's mostly recovered himself as he makes a respectful bow, pressing his lips to her gloved hand. "Thank you for inviting me."

"You know as well as I do that my brother would never have agreed to join us if I hadn't," she says.

"Hey, don't start the festivities without me!" Cora exclaims by way of announcing her presence as she pushes past Laura and her husband into the balcony. She gives Derek an uncivilized punch in the shoulder.

Derek watches Laura purse her lips at her. "Where's Miss Rousset?" she asks. "I was looking forward to meeting your current paramour."

Cora waves her hand dismissively. "We had an irreconciliable difference of opinion."

"Did you?" Laura asks, narrowing her eyes at her.

Derek is just glad to have the attention off of him. He ventures a glance over at Stiles, but the younger man isn't looking at him.

He opens his mouth to say something, he's not entirely sure what, but then the strains of the orchestra start and the curtain rises.

 

 

Twice during the first act, the server comes by with port for the men and watered wine for the ladies. Derek suspects that Cora is more broken up about her 'difference of opinion' with her latest suitor than she lets on. So, against his better judgement, he allows her to pilfer his drinks. Which she proceeds to down with a lack of grace to match the heartiest of club-goers.

Derek isn't been able to pay attention to the opera. He probably wouldn't have been able to even if he'd understood the language. Instead, he keeps looking over at Stiles, only to get strained looks back. He feels desperate to fix what just broke between them. He wants to take back ever making the ill-considered joke about his French. And, at the same time, wants desperately to know what Stiles meant when he said he cared for him.

When the intermission comes, he's too on edge to notice when Cora takes his drink again. Instead, he turns to Stiles, who is looking back at him, with eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Stiles," he begins.

But then he's accosted with the weight of a half-drunk little sister hanging off his shoulders.

"Derek," she sing-songs. "Laura wants to know when the wedding is."

"Whose wedding?" Derek asks, not even bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he tries to disentangle himself. He glances back at Stiles. He's unnaturally afraid that if he takes his eyes off him, he might disappear.

"*Your* wedding, silly," Cora says with a laugh.

"Cora, get down," Laura hisses, and drags her back into her seat by the neck of her dress.

"Your wedding," Stiles repeats dully.

"Cora, I don't know what you're talking about," Derek says, glaring back at her.

It's Laura's sharp eyes that land on him this time, and she says, "So that answers that question."

"What question?" Derek asks.

"Of whether you've been too chicken to ask him or not," Cora pipes up, grabbing for a glass of Laura's watered wine, which Laura swiftly removes from her hands.

Stiles's eyes dart between Cora and Derek. "You're planning to ask someone to marry you?"

"No," Derek blurts out. He exhales, forcing himself to relax his grip on the arms of the chair. "I mean, yes. I was. I am. I just--"

"You're too chicken?" Cora pipes up helpfully.

"Cora," Laura hisses at her.

"I needed to know his feelings on the subject," Derek finishes quietly.

"Oh," Stiles says. It looks like it takes a lot more than his usual effort to muster up a smile. "Right. Well. Who is it, then?"

There's a long moment of silence.

"Who is it?" Derek repeats back, dumbfounded.

"Seriously? Do you really not know?" Cora's bluntness is more curious now than belligerent.

"Why are you all looking at me like that?" Stiles's eyes dart between them.

"Stiles, who else would it be? It's you," Derek says. He reaches out for him but Stiles snatches his arm away.

"No," Stiles says, shaking his head. "No, you can't just do this."

"Stiles--"

"Maybe I'm so far below you that this is just your idea of a good joke, but it's not funny. You can't just do this to me."

Stiles brushes jerkily past him on his way to the balcony exit. Derek starts to get up and reach out for him again, but Stiles says, "No. Don't. Just--don't."

 

 

"I don't understand," he tells Laura, once his older sister has her long-suffering husband escort Cora off the balcony. "I've been courting him for months. I've taken him to every ball. We see each other almost every day! I've hardly even talked to another bachelor or debutante all Season."

"Yes, and believe me, if you weren't an Earl, society would have something to say about the propriety of that."

"How could he really not have any idea? What am I supposed to do?"

"Go after him. And ask him. Properly this time," she says simply.

"But what if he doesn't want me? If it didn't even cross his mind that I was courting him in the first place, how interested could he possibly be?" Derek asks.

Laura takes a deep breath. "I suppose you could look at it from his perspective, Der. You're an Earl. And the most eligible bachelor in London this Season. You own a sizeable chunk of the *country*. He's barely a gentleman with nothing but some fragile ties to noble blood. How many other Earls, or Dukes, or Barons, for that matter, would court him?"

"But--"

"And how many of their families would let those Earls and Dukes and Barons get away with it?"

"But I don't care," Derek says with a frown.

"I know. He's lower than you and uncouth and awkward, but he makes you laugh. So I don't care, either."

Derek shakes his head. "I need to find him."

"Yes, you do."

 

 

He finds Stiles sitting on the edge of the water fountain in the traffic circle outside the Operahouse. He's kicking his feet off the edge. Derek takes a deep breath and steps forward.

 

 

Stiles can hear Derek's footsteps, one heavier than the other, with a clack of the cane in between, but he doesn't look up even as Derek sits down beside him.

"It wasn't a joke," Derek says.

"Yes." Stiles runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, he notes distantly. "I get that. It took me a moment, but I know you don't have a taste for that sort of humor."

Derek is silent.

Stiles finally raises his eyes to look up at him. "Did you mean that? What you said? What your sisters said?"

Derek lets out a long breath. "I'm not--I'm not suitable."

"What?"

"I'm not suitable for you," he keeps talking over Stiles. "I'm a boor and a cripple. There's so much light in you and so much darkness in me. And there's so much I can't give you. I'm broken in ways that can't be put back together. But I'm selfish, Stiles."

"Derek--" Stiles tries.

Derek's light eyes are fierce on him in the glow of the gaslamps. "I'm selfish because I'm going to ask you to marry me. Even though I know that you should say no."

Stiles reaches up and touches Derek's face. He runs his gloved fingers over the stubble of his chin.

"I'm not going to say no," he tells him.

 

 

For a long moment, Derek stares into Stiles's eyes. Stiles stares right back, eyes filled with affection and wonder and determination.

Derek takes Stiles's hand from his cheek, holding it between his as he gently tugs the glove off by the fingers. He runs a thumb over the long bones of the back of his hand and Stiles's fingers curl around his own.

And Derek suddenly realizes he's allowed this. He's allowed to want this.

Stiles didn't say no.

He raises their joined hands and presses a tender kiss to Stiles's bare knuckles. Stiles shudders under his touch and Derek can't take it. He surges forward and captures his lips with his own.

Derek grips his hips and pulls him up over so Stiles is sitting over him on the edge of the fountain. He tilts his head up to meet Stiles's lips again.

"Derek, Derek," Stiles moans between kisses that are turning more desperate each time their lips meet. His hands move over his shoulders, his biceps, his chest, as if he can't decide where he wants to put them. Derek just tightens his grip on his hips, fingers digging into the slight softness there. He's afraid if he starts touching Stiles, he won't ever stop.

"You have no idea--" Stiles pants out as Derek moves his lips down to the side of his neck.

"I do," Derek says.

"--how much I want this--"

"I do," Derek says again. He pulls down Stiles's cravat so he can suck a kiss into the tender skin underneath.

"--how much I want you."

"Jesus, Stiles, I *do*," Derek says. He pulls Stiles down forcefully, so he's sitting in his lap.

They kiss again, with a more frantic desire than before.

Stiles tightens his arms around Derek's shoulders, holding them so close that the curve of his belly pushes into Derek's stomach. 

"We can't, Stiles," Derek whispers against his lips.

"Yes. We can," Stiles insists, kissing him again.

He runs his hands up to Derek's hair, tangling his fingers in it. Derek doesn't know where his top hat went but is sure he couldn't care less.

"Derek, you're so--" he says.

"We can't do this," Derek says again, trying to will himself to pull away.

"Why not?" it comes out as a whine.

A loud voice interrupts, "Perhaps because you're in a public square and the opera is about to let out any minute?"

With a surprised yelp, Stiles scrambles backward off Derek's lap. And he would fall on the tile except Derek catches him by the hands he has still gripped tight on his hips. Then quickly releases him as he turns to his sister.

"Or perhaps because you're not married yet?" Laura continues.

"Well, at least we know what Stilinski's answer was," Cora sounds a bit more sober but no less amused with herself than earlier.

"I should certainly hope so," Laura says with a sniff.

"This wasn't what it looked like," Stiles protests. Derek turns to him, wondering what argument he might possibly have to stand on.

"Oh, really?" Laura says skeptically.

"I--" Stiles glances helplessly at Derek. Then, getting no help from his quarter, looks back at Laura. "Um, no, actually, on second thought, it probably is exactly what it looked like."

Derek realizes he still has Stiles's glove bunched in his hand. Instead of giving it back, though, he stuffs it into his kerchief pocket.

"Give me a month to plan your ceremony," Laura says with sigh. "And do attempt to keep yourselves from ruining your reputations entirely in the next four weeks."

"Yes, My Lady. Won't be a problem at all," Stiles declares as he kneels to snatch his own hat from where it's fallen on the ground. 

Derek unsuccessfully tries keep his eyes off his backside as he bends over.

 

 

 

"So," the Sheriff begins the following morning. He turns the page of his newspaper at the breakfast table.

"So," Stiles agrees as he drops into the seat next to him and takes a bite of an eccles cake.

His father holds up the newspaper for Stiles to see and points a finger at a specific column.

"Really?" Stiles asks. "Have you stooped so low as to be reading the gossip column?"

"I received a note from Lady McCall that I may find an interesting topic in here this morning."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles says, mouth full of pastry.

"See here? It says that a certain Miss PK of an eastern county has been linked to a certain Mister of parliamentary fame."

"I have no idea who those people are," Stiles says, taking another bite.

"Well, how about this one, then? We are pleased to be the first to announce that the eligible Earl DH has made an offer for a certain gentleman sheriff's son."

Stiles's mouth hangs open. "How did they even *know*?"

At his father's look, he quickly backtracks.

"What I mean is, that could be about anyone. They didn't even give the sheriff's son's initials."

His father sighs. "I know you are of age, son. But, correct me if I'm wrong, I believed it was still tradition for the suitor to seek permission from the *parents* prior to settling an engagement?"

"Uh," Stiles says, thinking fast. "Yes. True. And that is why I have extended an invitation for the eligible Earl DH to dine with us tonight."

An invitation he will write just now, and have Isaac hand deliver to a certain home on the Square.

"After you have already accepted, though, I am to assume?"

"Um. Perhaps? Yes?" Stiles says and bites his lip. "But you don't understand. It was a rushed situation."

"Rushed," his father repeats the word flatly.

"No," Stiles exclaims. "Not *rushed* rushed. It's not as if we were caught in a compromising position, or anything." He thinks on that. "At least not prior to our engagement."

"Stiles, please focus only on the topics that I, as your father, would wish to hear of," his father says wearily.

"I'd have thought you would be happy to hear it, anyways," Stiles says, crossing his arms. "Isn't this the point in having me come to London for the season, after all? To find someone--anyone--who can provide for me?"

"Stiles--"

"I'm not truly fooled with you saying that I can always go back to University, you know. You know we cannot afford it. And there are no scholarships for Mythological Studies programs."

"Is that why you agreed to the engagement?" his father asks quietly. "Because you felt you had no other option?"

"No," Stiles says firmly. "No, I have options, all right?"

His father gives him a skeptical look.

"Look, I wasn't going to tell you, but I applied for some jobs. And I had an offer the other day for a position as Clerk with Blackwell Firms. The pay would be decent enough for me to rent a room here in the City. I could still spend time with Scott. And there are other jobs I haven't heard back from yet. So, no, I have other options, all right?"

"Stiles," his father starts, weary lines creasing his forehead.

"No, see, I have options, all right? One of those options just happens to include marrying the man I am in love with. So. Be happy for me."

 

 

 

Laura takes Stiles shopping and Stiles feels like he's discovered a Tenth Circle of Hell.

"Here," Laura says, pointing at the shop window. Her other arm is tucked over Stiles's.

"It looks just like the seven others we've looked at," Stiles grouses.

Laura stares at him for a moment, and then shakes her head. "You have been out of Society too long, then."

"You realize I would have had to actually been *in* Society in order to be out of it?" Stiles points out. Then suggests hopefully, "Maybe you should just take me as a hopeless cause, get my measurements, and then pick one out to your own liking?"

Laura gives him a disapproving look. "This is your own wedding, Mr Stilinski."

"To be honest, I'm more interested in what comes *after* the wedding, than the ceremony itself," Stiles says.

Laura raises an eyebrow in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of Derek, and Stiles flushes.

"That's not that I meant," he flails the arm that isn't supporting hers. "I just meant--"

"Oh, I know what you meant," Laura says. "I did find you and my dear brother in the hall the other day."

Stiles sighs. What she found them doing was hardly anything close to scandalous. He and Derek haven't even exchanged more than a few kisses since the night of their engagement. And none of them has been as heated as that one.

There are other changes which are nice, however. Derek offers him his arm as they make their morning constitutionals. And Stiles often catches Derek looking at him in unguarded moments, giving him tender, besotted looks. He wonders if this is new, or if he would always have looked at Stiles like this if he had felt free to.

Derek has not brought up his time in the war again, in the prison where Stiles has inferred that he had been tortured to within an inch of his life. And, as much as Stiles wants to know -- feels he needs to know, in order to properly take care of his soon-to-be husband -- he has refrained from bringing the topic up.

"This will be the last tailor's we stop at," Laura tells him.

She'd said that at the last three as well, but Stiles resigns himself to it anyways.

 

 

 

A couple weeks later, Isaac finds Stiles in the kitchen with a plateful of leftovers in the middle of the night.

"Nighttime snacking, again, master?" a voice comes from the darkened doorway and Stiles jerks, almost falling backward off the bench.

"Isaac!" he hisses as his manservant steps into the candlelit kitchen with a smirk on his face. "What have I said about sneaking up on me like that? You'll give me a heart attack. Or I'll go into a faint and the joke will be on you because I don't believe we even have any smelling salts."

"They're in the upper cabinet in the salon," Isaac says, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. "And I do believe the joke will be on you if you're the one who requires reviving."

"You'll be the one who will have to face my father," Stiles warns him.

Isaac just gives him a faint smirk.

"Ugh. Fine." Stiles holds out a piece of roast. "Do you want to share some of this? Is that what it will take to buy your silence from gossip?"

"I ate my fill at dinner," Isaac tells him. "I would have thought you had also."

"I was hungry for a snack," Stiles informs him.

Isaac eyes him up and down. "You know, you've put on some since your engagement."

"I have not," Stiles says hotly. Even if, despite his denial, he's well aware he's more filled out than before these past weeks. Stiles thinks about that sometimes. How Derek is gorgeous and fit and is about to have a husband who's plain and on his way to plump. Of course, every time he thinks about that, he gets anxious and eats even more.

Stiles takes another a defiant bite of his mutton roast and tells Isaac, "And, even if I have, you've been on me about it all Season. I don't see how that can be such a shock."

Isaac shrugs. "Just haven't seen you down here in the middle of the night in a while."

"You know I eat when I'm stressed," Stiles complains. He pushes back from the table bench and crosses his arms, mimicking Isaac's posture.

"Why are you stressed, then? Seems to me things have all worked out in your favor," Isaac presses. "You get the Earl. The fortune. And he's even arranged for you to finish your studies."

Isaac obviously has that information from eavesdropping on his supper conversation with his father the other night. The man could at least pretend to be a proper manservant once in a while.

"Why do you ask? You want some juicy new gossip to share below stairs?" Stiles demands.

"In case you missed it," Isaac looks pointedly over at the staircase up from the kitchen. "You are below stairs right now."

"In case *you* missed it," Stiles says. "You are not my confidante. I have friends for that."

"A friend," Isaac corrects. "And where is McCall right now, then?"

Stiles sets his jaw. The point stings. He'd attempted to visit Scott soon after his engagement, only to be told that he was out of the house. He didn't hear from him until a letter three days later from Gretna Green, where he and the Lady Allison had apparently decided to elope.

In Scott's latest letter, he'd explained his delay in his return to London by an extended tour of the northern English countryside, prompted by his new wife's taking a liking to ancient castles.

Stiles can't help but wonder if he should take for granted that Scott will even be back for his wedding.

"Look," Stiles says. "I'm allowed to be stressed, all right? I'm marrying an Earl. No one can understand it. I'm not beautiful, or rich, or from a noble family. And I can't claim any particular accomplishments. Unless writing a thirty-three page treatise on the depiction of circumcision in Ancient Greece is an accomplishment. And, according to my Economics professor, it was not."

Isaac just raises his eyebrows. "So?" he asks.

"So? So, the other day, I had to listen to two ladies talk -- right in front of me, by the way, as if I'm truly that invisible -- and conjecture in all seriousness whether I had cast some sort of dark spell on the poor Earl!"

"And did you?" Isaac's lips twitch.

"If I knew how to cast dark magic, don't you think I could find better uses for it than love spells?"

Isaac shrugs. Stiles just drops his head into his arms.

"Jesus. This is ridiculous. Just go," he says. "Let me finish my snack in peace."


	4. The Wedding

The wedding is in one of the city's older churches. Stiles has never been to a true nobleman's wedding before, but it's, thankfully, a smaller affair than Stiles had expected. In retrospect, he supposes that must be due to the sheer number of marriages negotiated each Season.

Stiles's suit fits just fine. Isaac seems surprised at that, and Stiles is, too, to be honest. But he's hardly going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Not that he's been gifted many horses in his life. He doesn't even particularly like horses.

The strange part of all of it is not standing before the priest in front of a small, but intimidatingly distinguished crowd, of nobles and his father and the McCalls, including one Lady Allison McCall. It isn't agreeing to vows that Stiles isn't even really paying attention to -- at one point, Derek has to give his foot a nudge because he's forgotten to reply at the right time. It isn't even, at least, right away, the fact of being married to the Earl of Lycanshire. It isn't walking around and greeting their guests, arm tucked under Derek's, hand held in his.

No, it's when they're getting out of Derek's carriage afterwards and the footman offers his assistance to Stiles with a bowed head and a respectful, "My Lord Hale."

"Um," Stiles says. He glances back at Derek and then to the footman. "What did you just call me?"

And then there's Derek's laughter behind him.

 

 

By the time they make it to the master bedroom, Stiles is babbling about... something. Derek isn't entirely sure. 

"Am I supposed to sleep here?" Stiles is asking. He's standing in the middle of the room, turning as if taking it all in. "Or do I have a separate bedroom you think I should use? I like to cuddle. I mean, I haven't had much opportunity to. Any, really. But, theoretically, I really like to cuddle and I hope you'll be on board with that?"

Derek feels his own lips curve up as looks on his beautiful, but rather high strung, husband in the candlelight. He closes the door behind them and then takes a step towards him.

"Stiles?" he asks.

Stiles actually startles, spinning around to face him.

"Sorry," he says.

Derek reaches out for Stiles's coat and starts to tug it down from his shoulders.

As he does, Stiles says, "I'm going to be so good for you. I mean, I want to be good for you. I hope I can be. Um, not in here. Well, in here, too. I would like to be good for you in here, too."

"I want to be good for you, too," Derek says. He reaches for Stiles's cravat.

"Oh." Stiles breathes out. "But you already are."

"Good," Derek says. He reaches down and starts unbuttoning Stiles's waistcoat.

"Um." Stiles glances down. "I don't really look my best unclothed right now. I don't know why I couldn't have just skipped a few of those midnight snacks. And, god, I bet you look so good. I mean, I know you look good."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him, and pulls Stiles's waistcoat off as well.

"I've thought about it," Stiles continues. "And I know you have scars. At least, I assume you have scars, what with your history, and, um, never mind."

Derek stares at him.

Stiles meets his eyes and continues, "I just want you to know that I know so maybe you won't be worried about them? Because that would absolutely be the kind of thing you'd worry about. And you shouldn't be because I'm going to think you're gorgeous no matter what. And, also, just to get this out of the way--"

Derek starts to frown. He's not sure if he should be worried about that opening or not, but--

"I promise I didn't cast a love spell on you," Stiles says. "I don't even know love spells! Or any other spells. Don't listen to the rumors. Does witchcraft even exist?"

Derek bites back a laugh.

Stiles shakes his head, "God, Derek, I'm being ridiculous, aren't I? Why did you even marry me? Make me stop talking, please."

"Stiles," Derek says.

"Yes?"

"You seem nervous."

"You would be, too, if you just married an Earl," Stiles tells him, biting his lip.

Derek just hums and steps in closer. He wraps an arm around Stiles's soft waist and traces his thumb over his bottom lip, making him release it from his teeth. Stiles's eyes are wide in the candlelight.

"I adore you," Derek says, and presses his lips softly to his.

 

 

 

"We should do that again," Stiles announces, still breathless.

Derek presses a kiss to his temple and rearranges them so his arm is underneath Stiles, around his shoulders. They're lying atop the bedcovers. Derek is glad he has built enough muscle back up so his crippled leg is less obvious. And he's grateful that the candlelight hides the worst of his scars from his new husband.

More, he's grateful for a husband who said, before any of Derek's scars were revealed, before being asked, that he'd imagined that Derek would have them, and that he didn't care.

"We should do that again *right now*," Stiles emphasizes, though his voice is sleepy.

"If someone would have told me my husband would turn out to be such an impatient man--" Derek teases.

"Shut up, Derek," Stiles says, batting at his chest without heat.

Derek just hums. He lets his free hand slide down Stiles's torso and come to rest over the plump flesh of his stomach.

"This is nice," Derek murmurs into the side of his head.

"Oh, god." Stiles's head falls back onto Derek's shoulder. "Is there a chance you might be able to pretend that your husband isn't getting a paunch?"

"You mean, ignore my husband's unfortunate sweet tooth?"

"And maybe warn your Cook to lock the kitchen at night?" Stiles adds hopefully.

"Or I could just instruct her to make you whatever you wish," Derek suggests. "And let my tailor deal with the consequences."

"And you," Stiles adds.

"And me what?"

"Let you deal with the consequences, too."

"I could live with that," he tells him, and gives Stiles's stomach an affectionate caress. "In any case, I already told Cook we'd require your favorite lemon cream cakes for the morning."

 

FIN.


End file.
